Suddenly an idea struck him. He took one of the handkerchiefs, the one he had wet in the river, and cut the hem off with his knife. This he tested by pulling it.
“Feels strong,” he declared to himself. “We’ll take a shot at it, anyhow. Can’t any more than fail.”
He looked about him until he found a stick and a small dry log.
“Now, Mr. Scout, do your stuff,” he chuckled, and arranged his implements. The strip of handkerchief he wound about the stick in such a manner that, when made the string of a bow and sawed back and forth, the stick spun rapidly around. Then he whittled one end of the stick to a point, found a flat grooved rock to hold the other end with, and bent to his task.
“Handkerchief, stay with me!” he breathed, and he started the stick whirling in a small hole cut in his log. He had piled some fine, dry bark shavings close to this hole, and now he watched them anxiously. Faster and faster he twirled the stick. If the strip of cloth held, he might— Ah! There it was! The shavings were smoking! A little more now!
He blew gently on his fuel and was rewarded by seeing a thready spiral of smoke ascend. Then he cast the stick aside and fed the tiny flame with dry leaves. Within five minutes he had a respectable blaze going, actually a fire started! Did a wood fire ever before send out such welcome incense? Not for Roy Manley—nor for many another boy, perhaps, situated as he was just then.
“The boy firemaker!” he laughed, and strutted about until he came down too hard on his sore leg. But the warmth of the flame was grateful, for the day was cool and his wet clothes anything but comfortable. Presently Roy removed his outer garments and spread them around the fire. Standing near the blaze, he dried his underthings and, after a time, dressed again with considerable ceremony. Dry clothes are real clothes, he decided, while wet clothes are worse than fetters. He felt better; much better.
“The next thing to do is to eat,” he told himself. Building a wall of dirt around the fire so it could not spread, he went in search of food, holding his knife in readiness in case an opportunity to use it should present itself. He saw several rabbits and some squirrels, but none of them was near enough to bring down. But at last he espied a porcupine slowly crossing a log in front of him. Discarding the knife in favor of a heavy stick he picked up, Roy rushed upon the quilled animal. With one sharp blow on the head he killed it.
“That was luck!” he chuckled, looking over the queer thing that lay there.
“We saw your brother about a month ago,” he mused, while he carried his game back to the fire and soon prepared the beast for cooking. “But there was no need of killing him. Teddy wanted to cart him back and show him to Pop,” Roy ruminated. At the thought of Teddy, a frown of anxiety crossed Roy’s face, but he quickly dismissed it. Worrying was worse than useless. Besides, Teddy must be some place.